


His Plan Was Stupid

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, TEH, TaB, tst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 04:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11223414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Sherlock's plan was stupid.Well, brilliant and elegant and not overly complex like some of his schemes, but bloody stupid anyway.Set during TEH/TAB.





	His Plan Was Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> The fourth installment in the Girlfriend series.
> 
> Beta'd as always by madder_badder. Not Britpicked.

Sherlock's plan was stupid.

 

Well, brilliant and elegant and not overly complex like some of his schemes, but bloody stupid anyway. Even if that junkie gremlin was as good as Sherlock said he was at procuring and compounding medical-grade pharmaceuticals, she was no anaesthetist. At least Sherlock had given her actual medical records (sans Vitruvian John this time), but the fact remained that this was nowhere near her area of expertise.

 

And, of course, having an armed response unit swarm a crazy supervillain lair that was sure to be crawling with its own private security wasn't asking for trouble at all.

 

Sometimes it was like he was a little kid who'd read too many comic books. He was ten years old. She was in love with a ten year old.

 

Well, a bit in love. She wasn't sure where she was at, really, until what happened last week had poured gasoline on that fire.

 

And because she had no sense whatsoever, there she was stripping out of her t-shirt before crawling into bed with him, hoping for... Well, obviously something. Ideally another spectacular shag, the likes of which she hadn't had in years. Or even just a grope and a tickle. Anything a bit physical, really.

 

Sherlock didn't want to wake up, though, only grunted a response to what she said and slung an arm over her waist. At least a nearly-naked cuddle was something, new and thrilling in its own way.

 

They still hadn't talked about it. Or acknowledged it. Nothing had changed at all, really.

 

Something to be thankful for, she thought. She didn't think she could do a normal relationship with Sherlock, even if he suddenly, miraculously decided he wanted one. Down the pub on weekends, date nights, anniversaries and being the plus-one and holidays with family... None of that fit with Sherlock, not really. Nor would she want it to.

 

Funny, though, since she'd already met his parents (did it count if he was unconscious at the time?) and they were very nice people who hadn't been fazed at all when she told them how she knew Sherlock. Then again, their son had just been shot and no one knew if he'd recover, so it wasn't _meeting_ -them meeting them...

 

She felt a stab of guilt for her part in his plan to drug them so he could hare off to collapse Magnussen's evil empire. If anything went wrong... They were elderly, after all. And she would blame herself for it, even if Sherlock didn't. Which he might or might not do, she didn't know. Not on the surface, of course, but deep down.

 

She really shouldn't let herself worry. She knew better than anyone that anything could happen from one breath to the next. Sometimes failure to act was more disastrous than taking the wrong action, if only for the regret that followed forever after.

 

She sighed and made herself more comfortable, concentrating on the warm solidity of Sherlock's body next to her. Live in the moment.

 

She drifted awake slowly, only becoming really aware of being not-asleep when Sherlock moved next to her. She was warm and well-rested and nothing seemed quite as troublesome or dire as it had the night before. Rather the opposite, actually; Sherlock laid his hand on her stomach and she had to smile at how nice it felt. She stretched and pulled him closer, just like he'd pulled her closer last night. It was a nice way to wake up.

 

"Morning," she said.

 

He smiled at her, looking more relaxed than he had in... well, ever, really. He always had something on his mind, even when he was having a bit of downtime at hers. There was something else there, too, a kind of amused affection that made her stomach do little flips. She'd seen it on his face before plenty of times, but not while he was leaning over her, in her bed, nearly naked.

 

"Morning," he said quietly, his voice zinging from her ears to the tip of her toes and back again.

 

Then he kissed her like it was just any other lazy Saturday morning and they'd woken up together like this a thousand times before. It was a soft kiss, a content kiss, lingering for just a few seconds before he pulled back.

 

Molly had other ideas. She wasn't ready to face the day yet; she wanted more of that. She rolled onto her side and leaned in to kiss him again and was that...? Oh, it was. _Good morning Sherlock Holmes_ , she thought.

 

She stroked him through his pants and he rolled her onto her back; she really liked where this was going but—

 

"Don't put pressure on my bladder, I have to pee already," she said. Her bladder wasn't achingly full, but she was definitely aware of it.

 

"If you have to go, you should just get up," he said, amused.

 

"Nn. Don't want to. Bed's too warm. Plus, ah, it kind of makes it better sometimes. More urgent." She probably sounded like a weirdo; she hoped he didn't think she was some kind of fetishist or something.

 

"Ah." Apparently the explanation was good enough and didn't deter him at all; he kissed her again, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth.

 

He played with her nipples and she touched him through his pants, enjoying the feel of smooth silk over his straining cock. She wrapped her hand around it as much as she could with this underwear still on, let the weight of him rest in her hand, firm and solid and hot; the thought of him inside her pulled a greedy little noise from her throat. His cock jumped against her hand and he shifted back, kissing down to her breast to suck her nipple into his mouth.

 

He skated his free hand over her body before stopping to caress her through her pants; the sensation had her gasping and clutching at his back. She rocked against his hand, letting him learn what she liked. It was brilliant and not nearly enough.

 

 _Thank God_ , she thought when he started to work her underwear off, even if he was agonizingly slow about it. Wanting to speed things up a bit, she slid her hands underneath the waistband of his pants, getting a handful of his luscious arse before pushing them off as far as they would go. They rolled back together once they'd stripped; it felt so strange to be naked with him like this in the light of day. More real, undeniable.

 

Not that she would deny it, and she didn't think he would, either. Mostly because no one would ever suspect in the first place. It wasn't like either of them were going to announce to their friends and colleagues that they'd been shagging. She'd rather their friends and colleagues didn't know, should things not work out. She didn't need to lose even more people to a bad breakup.

 

Not that they were together-together. Or going to be. But they were definitely involved enough that any kind of step backwards in their whatever-relationship would negatively impact their working relationship.

 

Now wasn't the time for such thoughts, though, when Sherlock was stroking between her labia with maddeningly gentle fingers and his cock was pressed against her belly.

 

She thought she'd like to tease them both a bit more; she gave Sherlock's cock a few firm strokes before positioning him to rub the head over her clit. It was heaven. Sherlock liked it too, if his reaction was anything to go by.

 

 _He's really going to like this_ , she thought, repositioning him and pushing herself down until he was inside enough to let go and move her hand back to his shoulder.

 

His breath caught and he held it for a split-second before his hand flexed on her arse and he thrust up into her. She rolled her hips, trying to get him as deep as she could in that position. She moved against him, kissing him while she let herself get a little lost in the sensation.

 

"We should use a condom," she thought out loud, reluctant but knowing it was necessary.

 

It wasn't the safest time to be going without, especially with an unpredictable ejaculator, but it just felt _so good_. His flesh against hers, him inside her without any kind of barrier. The most intimate thing a woman could ever do. Well, the second; the _most_ intimate would be to let him ejaculate inside her without a condom, the thought of which sent a shiver down her spine as she contracted around him.

 

Sherlock hummed an agreement even as he began to move inside her.

 

"Do you think you can pull out?" she asked, thinking it was still stupid and too risky, but also willing to roll the dice with that much and the morning-after pill.

 

"Probably not," he answered, pulling her even tighter against himself and pressing more open-mouthed kisses to her chin and jaw.

 

Just the morning-after pill, then? The thought of him coming inside her, feeling his cock twitch and jump while he filled her, feeling his semen trickling out of her as she lay there afterwards, him running his fingers through it, rubbing it over her labia, her clit—

 

She moaned with the thought of it, pelvic muscles contracting with anticipation. It wouldn't take her much to get off if they kept going, even with the awkwardness of the current position, she probably wouldn't need anything more than the mental stimulation.

 

"Molly, we really need—"

 

"I know, I know," she cut him off. "Just feels so good like this."

 

"Oh, it _does_ ," he agreed emphatically, his hips still rocking into her in the same slow rhythm but his breathing as ragged as if he'd just run all the way there from Baker Street.

 

He was close, she thought. They could, right then, they so easily could, but she had to be an adult. That would be one step too far too soon and she knew it, even if her body told her otherwise.

 

"Okay," she said, taking just a few seconds more to feel him while she kissed his jaw. "Okay."

 

She broke away and grabbed a condom, rolled it on him; she took a moment to simply kiss him again. Sherlock seemed to have other ideas, eager to pick up right where they'd left off. He pulled her leg over his hip and yes, fine, it _was_ a very good idea. She positioned him and sank down on him again, loving the feel of his cock but hating the feel of the condom.

 

She'd have to give some serious thought to birth control again because she knew condoms were going to get old fast now that they'd had a taste of each other without. It wasn't something she'd made a habit of over the years and she hadn't even considered it with Tom (which, in hindsight, was a pretty big clue as to how things would end up), but Sherlock... Well, Sherlock was Sherlock.

 

The tone had changed, the urgency lessened; they moved together slowly, kissing, caressing; if she had to call it something she'd be inclined to call it making love. It wasn't sex or fucking, it was more than either of those things; she could feel the emotional connection they shared. It might not be _love_ , but it had deep roots. Friendship, metastasised.

 

Sherlock rolled her onto her back without pulling out like they'd choreographed it; she wondered how much of it was experience and how much was his natural grace.

 

"I won't put pressure on your bladder," he said quickly, like a pre-emptive defence before a scolding. There was something young and ridiculously cute about it; she laughed.

 

He smiled against her mouth in a kiss that lingered just long enough to convey affection before he pulled back and hunched himself up to suck her nipple. The new position changed the angle of his cock inside her and, combined with the feel of his mouth on her breast, she knew things were about to go from slow, comfortable screw to something needy and frantic.

 

He let her do most of the work, either holding still because he was trying to last or because he was more interested in his mouth on her breasts for the time being. He didn't move until she inadvertently found one of his sweet spots; he bucked against her and that was exactly what she needed.

 

She didn't even know what nonsense she babbled to encourage him as he finally fucked her in earnest; by the end he felt almost as feral as she was. She just wanted to curl around him and absorb him through her skin, hold him tightly as she came. He was relentless, not letting her go gently but prolonging the intensity of it until she couldn't take any more and pushed his head away, her nipple aching from the rough treatment.

 

She'd feel that later, she thought with a deep sense of satisfaction. Seconds later Sherlock's whole body tensed and he froze, groaning through his own orgasm. Still over-sensitized herself, she felt every twitch and jerk of his cock inside her, sending another little thrill of pleasure zipping through her.

 

He leaned up to kiss her and there was that _feeling_ again, so strong it was almost poignant. More than simple affection; there was a kind of rightness to it that made her uncomfortable because it _wasn't_. Couldn't be, not in the way either of them needed.

 

He pulled out and kissed her again like he couldn't stop himself.

 

"Sorry, but I really, really have to pee now," she said, pushing him away. It wasn't a lie, but part of her felt like she had to get away before it got too intimate (ha!) and she let him in too far, let him see more than she wanted him to.

 

As soon as her bare feet hit the cold floor she really did have to pee, urgently; she made a break for the bathroom. Her dressing gown was still in there from the previous morning, thank God.

 

She wasn't going to let it get weird. She'd treat it like they'd just gone out for an early-morning jog or played a game of chess or something, some kind of stimulating activity friends enjoyed together. It wasn't the start of a _thing_ , even if it felt like that more than a second one-night stand.

 

Funny, she'd wanted nothing else for years and now she wasn't ready for it. She was just tired of it, the whole game. She was tired of how everything in her personal life seemed to revolve around a man's feelings. Sherlock's, Tom's, Sherlock's again... She'd just come off months of worrying after Sherlock as he was recovering and mourning the end of her engagement (complicated as it was, it was still a loss and some days she still missed Tom); she needed some time and emotional distance for herself.

 

Maybe she was reading into it on Sherlock's part, maybe it was wishful thinking. A lot had happened in the last few months. He never talked about being shot, but she knew it had affected him. Maybe he just wanted sex with someone he trusted, too. Maybe he'd realized life is too short not to enjoy the full range of what it has to offer. Lots and lots of maybes.

 

Whatever, she thought to herself. They'd talk about it when they talked about it, if they talked about it at all. Maybe if they didn't talk about it it would just keep happening, and she was in favour of that.

 

*

 

She was on-call on Christmas Day; she always offered to take the holidays so other people could be with their families. It wasn't really a hardship; she had nowhere to go and didn't mind working on the off-chance there was a call. It freed up some of her other time, working out rather nicely.

 

When her phone rang at seven that evening, she assumed it was work. She'd already talked to the family she had left and she didn't expect Sherlock to phone; text maybe, if he could be bothered. She assumed he'd be round sooner rather than later, if only to have his ego stroked a bit (or, well, something else now, too, maybe, who knows?).

 

It was Mary; Sherlock had been arrested for killing Charles Magnussen.

 

She felt a bit sick.

 

His plan had failed and he'd done what he thought he had to do.

 

She didn't think it was the first time, either. He avoided talking about the two years he was away. She was sure he'd been in awful, impossible situations and she'd seen the torture wounds on his back when they'd still been fresh; she knew those scars weren't only skin deep, no matter how well he hid them.

 

She didn't know what she should be feeling about it, honestly. They lived in a democratic, civilized society with no place for vigilante justice. But everybody felt like there were people at the top that should just go away and die because they were omnipotent and evil, and Magnussen fit that bill. She was actually glad he was dead, as far as that went, just like she'd been glad when Moriarty had killed himself; it was something a little more malicious than relief and she knew a better person would feel guilty about it.

 

With Moriarty, Sherlock hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. She'd known that long before she ever got a look at the body; Sherlock had been stricken. Pale as death and shaking like a leaf from the adrenaline, he'd stammered his way through telling her what had happened on the roof. It was the first time she'd seen him such a mess and it had terrified her.

 

She couldn't imagine what he was like now. She knew him; intellectually he felt much the same as she did and he very much believed in justifiable homicide, though only under the right circumstances. Emotionally, though... that was another matter. He held himself above everyone else, but also held himself to a higher standard than other people.

 

He was a murderer. He'd _murdered_ Charles Magnussen.

 

He was probably tearing himself apart, wherever he was.

 

She'd been so stupid to be lulled into complacency with his stupid plan. She should have done more to talk him out of it, talk him through something else.

 

She wondered what the hell she should be doing. What could she do? It's not like she could go and see him like she had in hospital; it would be days before anybody but his lawyers or Mycroft (and maybe Greg, if the right strings got pulled) could go anywhere near him.

 

 _Christ_ , she thought.

 

*

 

Mary phoned her the morning of New Years' Eve; Sherlock was being shipped off on a long assignment for his brother and they were going to go see him off, would she like to ride with them? She couldn't, of course, she was at work.

 

She was a bit hurt that he hadn't phoned her to let her know he was out of prison or that he was leaving again. Angry, too, but that was mostly self-directed. He didn't owe her updates on his comings and goings. They weren't in a relationship, he wasn't obligated to tell her anything. She wasn't going to get clingy; she wasn't going to let herself get disappointed.

 

And then she forgot about Sherlock completely for a few minutes, because there was Jim Moriarty on all the computer screens in the lab.

 

At first she thought it was just for her, since there was no one else around and the lab was where she usually worked when she wasn't in the morgue, but then she'd heard the commotion in the corridor before two of the lab techs came running in. Apparently it was on every screen in the hospital; a few texts and calls by the nervous knot of medical staff that had clumped up in the lab confirmed that it was every screen in the entire country with any kind of connection to a network.

 

Jim was dead, no two ways about it. She'd seen it with her own eyes, and no one could fool her. Well, not with something like that, anyway. Something was happening, though, something big. She really, really hoped that something was Sherlock's assignment.

 

She wasn't going to let it get to her. It would get sorted whether she worried about it or not. She herded everyone back to work, went back to her tissue samples.

 

She got a text from Mary half an hour later. Sherlock was back already, and oh, he'd OD'd on the plane. Mild, he was fine now.

 

She was so angry she could barely see straight. All those months of his bullshit; it was for the case and the pain and I don't even like opiates, I'm clean and I don't need anything, I'm not an _addict_ , it's not like it was _heroin_.

 

She checked her phone again when she went to go and get herself a fresh cup of coffee; the arse was tweeting. If he was at her flat when she got home, or if he thought he could just show up there in the middle of the night, she wouldn't stop at just slapping him this time, she would bloody well _kill_ him.

 

She'd calmed herself down by the time she was ready to go home; she had three standing invites to New Years Eve dos from colleagues that she hadn't been planning on attending, but she was rethinking it. She had clothes in her locker if she got called in, anyway. Wouldn't be so hard to slap on some lipstick and pour herself into a dress and go be with other people and forget about everything for a night.

 

Of course he was there when she got home, already in pyjamas at half-seven in the evening, stretched out on her sofa under her fluffy blanket and eating ice cream from the carton like it was any other night in for two people who weren't them. He grinned at her when she walked past on her way to the stairs; she ignored him.

 

It would serve him right if she did just get herself ready and go to a party, she thought as she pulled clean pants out of her chest of drawers. Oh, who was she kidding? She didn't have it in her to smile and do small talk while avoiding handsy arseholes who thought one drink was all they needed as an excuse to get a pass later on. She grabbed her pyjamas from another drawer; Sherlock sidled up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist, bending to plant a kiss on the side of her neck. His lips were cold.

 

"What are you doing?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral. She'd be lying to herself if she said it didn't feel nice (it felt _really_ nice), but she couldn't even enjoy it on the simplest dreams-do-come-true level.

 

"Fairly obvious, I should think. I _did_ just get out of prison this morning," he said, punctuating with more kisses ending at her hairline, his nose brushing the shell of her ear. "I've heard this is rather the done thing."

 

"Really? And what else might you have done since then?" she asked, her tone anything but playful.

 

Sherlock let go of her, took a step back. "So you've been talking to Mary."

 

"She texted me. Twice, actually, which was more than you were bothered to do." Oh, she sounded snippy. Well, too bad.

 

"I... didn't know what to say," he said, his voice softer than she was expecting.

 

"No, what was there to say, anyway? 'Hi Molly, not going to be around for a while, but I'm okay,' probably wouldn't have covered it," she said sarcastically, closing her sock drawer more forcefully than necessary.

 

"So 'Put a bullet in a man's brain, went to jail but out now, fancy a quickie before I get shipped of to die in some former Soviet hellhole' would have been more acceptable?" She could hear the sneer in his voice; she wasn't going to turn around to look at him.

 

"Just a goodbye would have been nice. Then again, I'm not a Watson, so why would you say goodbye to me?" she said bitterly, looking down at the bundle of clothing in her hands.

 

"I didn't know they were going to be at the airfield. Mycroft arranged it. Were it up to me, they wouldn't have been there either. Goodbyes are meaningless," he said quietly, obviously meaning the exact opposite.

 

"Wouldn't have been meaningless to me," she said, turning to face him only long enough to brush past him so she could make her way to the bathroom. She didn't want to be having this fight, or any fight. He wasn't beholden to her, after all, and she'd do well to remember that.

 

He followed her, of course he did; he could never let something lie. "Would it have been better for you to spend the next six months wondering how I was faring, why I wasn't in contact, only to find out my luck had finally run out and they were shipping home whatever was left of me in a body bag, provided there was even a body _to_ return? Mycroft was sending me off to _die_. My 'assignment' was a _death sentence_. Have you stopped to think maybe I wasn't exactly thrilled with the prospect and didn't want that to be your last memory of me?"

 

 _Right_ , she thought cruelly. _Like you'd ever think of me, first_. It occurred to her then that the way he was emphasizing dying might not just be for dramatic effect. It should have been a bucket of cold water, but it only sparked her anger.

 

"So that's why you OD'd on the plane? Thought you'd just cut to the chase?" she asked, wheeling around just inside the bathroom door to look at him.

 

" _No_. I may have slightly miscalculated the dosage, but it was hardly an OD. Controlled usage—"

 

"That bullshit doesn't work on anybody, Sherlock. Are you high now?"

 

"I don't come here when I'm high," he said, clenching his jaw and looking away.

 

"Oh really?" she asked, staring him down. She was certain she wasn't going to like his response.

 

"Not technically. It was only once and I was coming down," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"I bloody knew it," she said. And she did. She'd denied it, but she'd known. She pushed away the feeling of disgust she had for herself, for him.

 

"What was your excuse, then?" he asked spitefully, his face intentionally blanked to hide whatever he was feeling.

 

Oh, that prick. She shook her head and pursed her lips, biting down on all the things she wanted to say; she wanted to blame him for her engagement ending, she wanted to say that night had been a stupid mistake, she wanted to tell him it had all been just for herself. All those things were more truth than fiction, but if she said them, she couldn't take them back.

 

"Why did you come here, Sherlock?" she asked finally, after the silence stretching between them had backed off from angry to impasse.

 

"Because I wanted to see you," he said simply.

 

 _Want_ , not need. _Need_ always meant he was in trouble, there would be a favour involved, it wasn't about _her_ but her skillset. _Want_ , on the other hand...

 

The honesty behind it pulled the breath from her lungs and made her scalp tingle. Sometimes he knew exactly what to say and how to say it without knowing what it actually meant to her, how much she wanted to hear it, just like how he could say the worst possible things without knowing it, either.

 

She sighed, defeated; deflated. "What about this thing with Moriarty, then?" she asked, because that was probably more important than whatever was happening between the two of them anyway. And, for now, neutral territory.

 

"Haven't the faintest idea. Initially I thought it might be Mycroft, he's clever enough and always has contingencies and I thought maybe he didn't want to live with my blood on his hands, but it's not him. Someone certainly wants my attention, though," he said, relaxing the littlest bit.

 

"The timing does seem a bit coincidental, doesn't it? I mean, if it were connected to Magnussen, they would have had a week already. And if they were going for some big impact, why not wait til midnight? Or even tomorrow? Funny that it happened right when you were leaving," she thought out loud.

 

Sherlock's lips twitched into a little smile, the kind of thing that made her feel like he was paying her a compliment without saying a word. She tried not to let it affect her.

 

"So where are you going to start?" she asked, her offer of help implicit. She shouldn't, but she couldn't not, either.

 

"I'm going to wait," he said. He shifted on his feet. "Well, more accurately, I'm going to collect data. All of it. Every quiver of the web."

 

 _You're mad_ , she thought. She didn't say it, though.

 

He turned the corners of his lips down and looked up and away, bobbing his head to say _well, yes, we have already established that_ ; he'd heard her anyway.

 

She felt something ease a bit; she was still hurt and angry and apprehensive as to what was coming in the future, but the immediacy of it had dulled. She simply wasn't the kind of person that could be on high alert for very long.

 

"What kind of ice cream did you bring?" she asked, letting him know with a look that all of this wasn't over, but it was over for now.

 

"Guess," he said, uncrossing his arms and taking the two steps needed to close the distance between them.

 

He kissed her then, soft and tender for a moment before working her lips apart and slipping his tongue into her mouth.

 

He really was a teenage boy, she thought, pushing him away and laughing despite how weird it was. This was not their level of familiarity, though she supposed it was now.

 

"Well?" he prompted, smug.

 

"Chocolate. Now let me have my shower, please," she said, firm over the amusement that was still twisting her lips.

 

"Half marks. Chocolate _Brownie_. And I could wash your back," he offered too-casually.

 

"Hoping I'll drop the soap?" She realized she probably shouldn't have made that joke, even if he'd made a prison joke first. Humour was always a fall-back when she was feeling a little out of her element.

 

"Oh yes," he said, playing it up with a wolfish smile.

 

"Out," she said, her delivery as flat as she could muster.

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "I tried," he said. He darted in for another quick kiss before dancing away like he was expecting retaliation; she was too stunned with how surreal the whole thing was to do anything but close the bathroom door behind him.

 

She spent her shower turning everything over in her head. He wasn't still high, was he? Probably not, and he'd said he wasn't. She couldn't always see through his lies, though.

 

Why was he acting like that, then? She knew he could be sweet and playful and a little goofy sometimes, but it wasn't how he was with her. At least, not like _that_. That wasn't to say things didn't change in relationships, in _friendships_ (which is what they were, _friends_ ), but...? But what?

 

And there was the whole death sentence thing. He probably wasn't being facetious about it, considering he'd emphasized it so much. Probably just happy to be alive, feeling like he'd cheated death. And he'd probably already had enough of being inside his own head, working through the fact that he'd killed Magnussen, so maybe he was overcompensating, trying to forget everything. Regressing to a simpler emotional state for a bit, and he was comfortable enough with her to do that.

 

That was okay, she thought. She could go along with that tonight. Only tonight, though.

 

Feeling better about everything, she went back downstairs. Sherlock was on his phone, her laptop on the coffee table in front of him.

 

"Any interesting corpses this week?" he asked, not looking up.

 

Or, well, maybe he was going to start on his data collection now.

 

"Nothing particularly noteworthy, no. A few suicides, ODs, intracranial hemorrhage from a pub brawl, Staph infection, fall down a staircase..."

 

"Mm. Next time I'm in I'll look over the records anyway. One never knows."

 

Once upon a time, she would have taken issue with that. Things like confidentiality and protocol used to mean something to her. Still did, just not where Sherlock was concerned.

 

"Have you eaten anything besides ice cream? S'pose I'll make some dinner."

 

"There's takeaway in the fridge. I got you the linguine, but if you want the chicken you can have it, I'm not hungry now."

 

"Oh. Thank you," she said, surprised. It wasn't the first time he'd brought her food, but usually it was only when they were working or right after they'd been working.

 

Really, though, takeaway, ice cream, already in his pyjamas when she got home, that whole thing up in the bedroom before... All of that added up to more than just there for a shag and a maybe a chat. Was it a statement, an assumption, or was she just reading too much into everything? She'd always kind of wondered—ever since that day they'd spent together that he'd planned as a thank-you—if he would be like that when dating someone. Romantic, casually attentive to detail, that kind of thing.

 

Or she was still seeing what she wanted to see, even now that she'd decided she didn't want to see it. A cigar was just a cigar. A whole box of them, in this case.

 

She warmed up some of the linguine; she was pretty sure it was from Angelo's because it was extra garlicky and the packaging was the kind he used. Sherlock was a creature of habit, after all. She took her plate to the lounge and installed herself on the sofa next to Sherlock.

 

"So when you said 'all the data...?'"

 

His eyes didn't leave his phone while he answered. "Anything that might be useful over and above everything I already monitor. And every single case that comes in on the website. Even the boring ones and the trolls. Probably should go back three years just to be safe. Remind me again why I quit smoking?"

 

"Because you like having a working cardiovascular system," she said, blowing on a forkful of pasta.

 

"If you say so," Sherlock muttered, switching to the laptop and scrolling through his website.

 

"Anything I can help with?" she asked. In for a penny, she supposed, and Sherlock was always more interesting than telly anyway.

 

She ended up taking over the laptop and spending the next two hours sitting on the floor drafting all the reply emails to everything that had come in in the last few weeks while Sherlock did other things on his phone. Most of them really were boring. Yes, your partner is cheating on you. No, it wasn't the babysitter/ cleaning lady/ gardener who stole the thing, it was your spouse/ child/ sibling. Yes, whichever employee you think is embezzling from you is, in fact, embezzling from you. Your neighbours are not spies/ aliens (space or illegal)/ gangsters/ serial killers (well, except the one, save that, his wife is probably under the new patio). You have not discovered a conspiracy. No I am not interested in speaking to your group/ organization/ company/ knitting circle; no I don't do interviews; no I won't send you an autograph or a selfie with the hat and some stupid hashtag on a piece of paper.

 

Sherlock decided it was time for a break and set his phone aside, twisting to plug it into the charger on the side table before lying down again. Molly stretched and leaned back against the front of the sofa, tipping her head to rest against Sherlock's thigh, letting her eyes drift closed. He took the clip out of her hair and toyed with it, clamping it over his fingers, using it to bite the side of her head, making the spring squeak before he got bored of it and closed it over a hank of still-damp hair.

 

She could get used to this, she thought. Maybe not being his secretary, but the rest of it. Dangerous thoughts.

 

"Does it bother you that I'm a murderer?" he asked point blank, his tone almost conversational.

 

She considered how she should answer. She'd assumed they weren't going to talk about it. They'd talked about things before, matters of morals and ethics in the abstract, but this was him asking her directly what she thought of _him_. He was asking for her to pass judgement.

 

"Would it bother you if it didn't bother me?" she asked, craning her neck to look up at him.

 

He turned his face in her direction. "Why aren't you?"

 

There were a lot of ways she could answer that, she thought. "Because I know you," she said simply.

 

"You don't." He sounded wistful, almost. Sad.

 

"I know enough," she said. "You didn't like it and you didn't want to do it, but you had to. There are a lot of people that couldn't have done it. I don't think I could."

 

He rolled his head on the arm of the sofa to face the ceiling again. "I didn't think I could, either. Now there's nothing to stop me from doing it again. I've dreamt about it every night. Sometimes it's just replaying it, other times it's someone else, somewhere else. Moriarty, my brother, John," he said, trying to sound factual and unconcerned and failing miserably.

 

She forgot sometimes how fragile he was. He was all lean muscle and strong lines and booming voice, but inside he was as delicate as blown glass. And she was one of the only people he trusted enough to let see that, maybe even the one he trusted the most with his frailty; after all, she was just a tiny, delicate thing herself. She was no match for a stiff breeze or a raindrop, so she was no threat to anyone. There was probably more to it than that, but it was easier to just think about it on the surface right then.

 

She turned her body to face him fully, rolling onto her knees. She didn't know what to say to make him feel better. She didn't have any profound words of wisdom, no perspective that would grant him a measure of peace. She slid her hand over his where it rested on his stomach, interlaced their fingers.

 

"You're still a good person," she said finally. It felt like an important thing to reinforce.

 

His fingers tightened in hers (maybe intentionally, maybe unconsciously) and he sighed. "And what does that matter, if a good person does bad things?"

 

Philosophy wasn't her area. She was wired to deal with one final absolute; everything before that (and after, actually) was relative.

 

"I don't know what to tell you. I wish I did," she said. "Maybe I'm not a good person for thinking you didn't do a bad thing. You gave quite a lot of people the best Christmas present they've ever got."

 

He made a little noise in the back of his throat; he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it before resettling it over his chest.

 

"I was ready to accept my punishment, you know," he said after the silence stretched on too long. "I could have gone rogue and Mycroft would have covered for me until I disappeared completely. I never would have been caught. I decided on the way to the airfield that I wouldn't do that, though. I would do what I was assigned and die for Queen and Country just as I was supposed to."

 

"So, suicide?" Molly asked, not sure if she was feeling more horrified or angry or betrayed right then. Over it all was a heavy blanket of sadness for him and that he felt that way, that his brother would agree to it, for just everything about it.

 

"That's one way of looking at it, accurate as any other," Sherlock said, his voice hollow. "I was glad you weren't with John and Mary. I didn't want you to see me. I didn't want to leave you with that."

 

And there he was, saying that again; there was something bigger underneath it than she was prepared to deal with. Not her immediate concern, though; just that morning he'd been ready and willing to _die_.

 

"You're not feeling that way any more, right? Suicidal, I mean."

 

"No," he said simply. His eyes looked shiny and a bit bloodshot, but he wasn't crying. Yet. He was close to it, she thought. She'd seen him sort-of cry just the once, that day he jumped, but it was an involuntary response. He'd also had a partial erection that she'd ignored then, too.

 

"If you ever do feel that way, you know you can come to me. I—" she almost said love, would have to any other friend, but couldn't with him, "—care about you and I don't want you to think you're alone. Okay?"

 

He closed his eyes and nodded too-quickly in that _yes, yes, I know_ placating kind of way; he didn't want to hear it but he needed to.

 

"Same thing with the drugs. I mean, I know you probably thought at that point that it didn't matter anyway, but it does matter. Your health, and your life... they matter to people, even if you think they don't."

 

He listened with his lips pressed together, chewing them, his lower jaw thrust forward. She could tell it was hard for him to hear and it hurt to think that sometimes he felt like he didn't deserve anyone's kindness or love. She wished she could make him see how beautiful and brilliant he was; she thought sometimes he did see it and he resented it as much as he hated the feeling of falling short of it.

 

She slipped her fingers free of his and shifted her hand so that they were palm-to-palm; it was the most physical comfort she was willing to offer without some kind of sign that he wanted more. He was drawing into himself, pulling back behind the walls, making himself untouchable. She didn't want to push him.

 

She was never the best with getting out what she wanted to, but at least she didn't stumble over things so much like she used to. "I really am glad you're here tonight and that I don't have to be alone. I mean, I know it's only a day like any other, but it's nice to have someone to ring in the New Year with."

 

"You got invited to parties," he pointed out. Of course he would, he was a natural-born contrarian. And he wanted to steer the conversation into safer waters, she was sure.

 

"Parties are draining. I mean, not all of them, sometimes they're alright, like last year at John and Mary's, but mostly they're just not fun."

 

"Mm," he acknowledged. "They asked me if I wanted to come round tonight. I declined." His thumb twitched against her forefinger, rubbed over the knuckle.

 

"Do they know you're here?"

 

She wasn't sure how she felt about that, honestly. She knew they were probably worried, but she didn't want anyone to know about them. Now that there was something to know, at least. Even before that, no one except Tom knew just how much time Sherlock spent in her flat (and even then, he didn't know how many times she'd found Sherlock in her bed, or traces of him having been after he'd left). It wasn't a secret, exactly, it was just something neither of them told anybody. They hadn't ever discussed it or anything; no need to because it wasn't anyone's business but their own.

 

"Nobody does. Maybe Mycroft, if he's got his gremlins watching. Which he probably does because he thinks—well." He cleared his throat, ashamed.

 

She wasn't going to say anything else about the drugs; she didn't want to kick him when he was down. He'd already heard a thousand variations of anything she could say, anyway.

 

Really, she didn't have much else to say about anything. Sherlock had always been a person she could share silence with; it got easier and so much harder as time went on. The things she didn't need to say and the things she could never say had both got bigger. At least she didn't feel the need to fill the space. She pillowed her head on her arm and let herself drift a bit; it had been a long day.

 

Her knees were beginning to protest from the position and the cold floor. "I can't decide if I want to watch the fireworks or just go to bed," she said, disentangling her fingers from Sherlock's so she could stand.

 

"I never watch it," Sherlock said. "Well, not on purpose."

 

"So you've watched it accidentally?" She stood and stretched, not feeling as sleepy once she was on her feet.

 

"It's been on in the background at places I've been. If being aware of it counts as watching," he said, sitting up.

 

She looked down at him at the same time he looked up at her; she felt almost outside herself when she reached out to draw her finger along the line of his jaw, already a bit rough with the day's stubble. Sherlock's hands moved to bracket her thighs just above her knees. The moment stretched before she bent down and kissed him.

 

She didn't know why she did it, exactly; she supposed it was bound to happen, considering how the night had started off. He was there, and he was him, and there was something in his eyes that pulled at her in so many different ways she didn't know what else to do with it. The whole day had been a bit of an emotional roller coaster; they both needed it, she thought.

 

They really, really needed to talk about it, whatever _it_ was. Should do, before it went any further.

 

 _Later_ , she thought as Sherlock pulled her closer.

 

He kissed her with a kind of gentleness at odds with the restlessness of his hands on the backs of her thighs; she wondered what he was thinking. It wasn't just a perfunctory pre-shag kiss, the kind that was only a vehicle to facilitate arousal. It was the kind of kiss that said _you mean something to me_ , that it wasn't only about getting naked and having a good time.

 

Maybe that was just him, though. Maybe that was the only way he knew how to kiss. Maybe he was simply a breed apart in that area, just like he was in a million other ways.

 

 _Does it really matter?_ she thought as his hands slid higher on her thighs, over her bum. He was alive, after all, and he was there with her, and all they ever really had was the moment they were in. They were less than an hour away from a new year; everything could wait until then. They'd talk about it tomorrow, set boundaries, define things clearly.

 

She kissed back with a bit more intent, planting one knee on the sofa and swinging her other leg over his to sit astride his lap. She draped her arms over his shoulders and he held her waist while they snogged like teenagers.

 

There was something comfortable and familiar about it, even if it was completely new to them; she supposed it was the position itself that made it feel that way. She liked being on top like this. It was a little bit of a power thing, being the one to hold him down and tower over him, but it was also something weird and almost childlike, remembering a time when straddling another person was completely non-sexual, either pretending they were a pony or using them like furniture.

 

Sherlock's arm was around her waist; his free hand was cold where it crept under her shirt. He didn't seem like he was in a hurry to get her naked, content to trail his fingertips up and down her spine and swirl patterns over her back. His kisses felt more exploratory, like he was taking the time to actually _learn_ her; the other times had been different in a way she couldn't explain. Like he'd been following a script inside his head, or doing something he thought he was supposed to be doing, whereas now he was being himself—analytical and cerebral, but also undeniably physical.

 

The arm that had been around her waist burrowed under her shirt to rest in the same spot it had been; his fingers wrapped around her side under her ribs. His other hand moved to cup her breast before letting it drop to feel the weight of it, tracing the shape with his fingertips.

 

She had the feeling that his touches were more for him than for her benefit; that he was taking for himself, memorizing her. He'd really been affected by—well, everything—that happened in the last week. She would give him whatever he needed to make him feel... whatever he needed to feel, but it would be on her terms.

 

She broke the kiss and pushed him to recline against the back of the sofa. She pulled off her jumper and stripped her t-shirt, tossing them to the side. The cold air made her break out in gooseflesh; Sherlock trailed his fingers over her chest, seemingly fascinated by the pebbling of her skin. She leaned in to kiss him again, resettling herself against his hips.

 

Arousal built slowly as they kissed, as Sherlock touched her and she touched him; he shrugged out of his dressing gown and she pulled his t-shirt over his head. She was reminded of all the sex she missed out on in her teen years and university days because school was more important and she hadn't grown into herself yet. It would have been like this, she thought, but maybe she was romanticising it.

 

She ran her hands over his chest; he shivered as her fingers brushed the edge of the pink, puffy mass of scar tissue. It would have been smaller if they hadn't had to open him up again to repair all the damage he'd done to himself afterwards. It was hard not to be mad at him for his own stupidity sometimes, but she wasn't thinking about that now.

 

"Sorry," she murmured into his mouth.

 

He let go of her breast and took her hand, pressing her palm flat against the scar. He broke the kiss and trailed his lips along her jaw. "When I was shot, you were the first person I thought of. You told me which way to fall," he said softly, kissing a spot on her neck. "You always save me."

 

She swallowed, her heart beating hard enough that she could feel it in her throat, making it difficult to breathe; she wasn't ready to hear what he was saying. The words themselves didn't make much sense to her, if he meant falling literally or metaphorically. The sentiment behind it, though... It wasn't enough, it was too much. She didn't know what he was looking for by saying it, what he expected in return.

 

So she did what she'd done with countless other men when things started getting too emotional or strange; she found Sherlock's mouth again, kissed him harder, pulled him closer, ground down against his cock in a way that said _now_. Most men took it as agreement, encouragement (and yes, it led to lots of misunderstandings and sometimes it snowballed; it was how she ended up engaged, really), but it was a way to temporarily displace the discomfort.

 

Of course Sherlock wouldn't just go along with it. He pressed her hand harder against his scar for a moment before he let go, moved to cup her jaw, his fingers threading through her hair. He swept his thumb over the rise of her cheekbone; he pulled back just enough from the kiss to return it to something gentle, delicate almost. He was insistent, he wanted her to listen.

 

It was tempting, so tempting to get caught up in whatever he was trying to say; she wouldn't. She wasn't going to set herself up for her heart to get broken. She dropped her hand to the drawstring of his pyjamas, the other moving to mirror him by cupping his jaw.

 

"I want you," she breathed against his mouth, gently nipping his bottom lip.

 

That was the right thing to say, apparently, or close enough; Sherlock exhaled a sigh and tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. Her hand was trapped awkwardly between them, but she was still able to undo the bow and knot of the drawstring, using the backs of her fingers to tease the head of his cock.

 

He rocked his hips against her, holding her in place when she tried to move back. He relented and loosened his hold, pulling her lip into his mouth and sucking it fiercely before letting her go entirely. She stood on wobbly legs and let him be the one to work her pants and pyjama bottoms down while he kissed and nipped along her stomach. He got rid of his own pyjamas while she stepped out of hers.

 

His hands went to her hips automatically as she climbed astride his thighs again; she dropped a hand between their bodies to stroke his cock. She would bring him off just like that, then one of them (hopefully him) would get her off as well. She wished she would have thought it through a bit and taken him upstairs. They could always go without protection entirely, it was probably about the safest time to do so, but that would set a dangerous precedent. Playing around without a condom was one thing, but completing the act was something else.

 

One of Sherlock's hands left her hip and groped around in the pile of fabric that was his dressing gown; she heard the tell-tale crinkle of a condom wrapper as he apparently found what he'd been searching for.

 

"Cheeky," she said against his mouth.

 

"Just prepared for all possibilities," he said, handing her the condom.

 

She wondered if he liked when she did it or he had some other reason; it didn't matter. She ripped open the packet and rolled it on him, then shifted herself forward and reared up on her knees. She positioned him and sank down on him in one slow, smooth movement; Sherlock gripped her hips tightly and kissed her neck, her chest.

 

She rocked against him, more interested in feeling the press of his cock inside her than actual fucking; Sherlock seemed content to go along with it, kissing and nipping and sucking every bit of skin he could get his mouth on while his hands skated over her back, her sides, her thighs, never settling. There was something so intimate about it, so... reverential in the way he was treating her that she almost couldn't stand it. He latched on to her nipple, his mouth pulling at her breast gentle and insistent; she was sure she could come from just that if it went on for long enough.

 

She didn't want to, at least not yet. She didn't want to be so passive, so complacent in her pleasure; she wanted to feel like she was earning it for herself. She sat up straighter, bowing her back a bit and clinging to his shoulders as she began to ride him; Sherlock reclined back against the sofa and held her hips. It seemed like he didn't know where to look, eyes skipping randomly over her body, never focusing on one part for very long.

 

She felt a bit self-conscious, always did when she was on top, but she drew a weird kind of strength from fighting back against her own vulnerability. _My body's not perfect, but in this moment it's the most amazing thing in your existence_ , she thought, watching Sherlock's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His lips were so red, slightly parted and spit-slick from the way he kept pulling the bottom one into his mouth; she had to kiss him again.

 

Her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, cradling his head as she kissed him senseless. Sherlock's palms glided over her back, fingertips tracing her spine, the lines of her scapulae. She felt loved, cherished; it wasn't something she'd ever expected. She let herself revel in it despite knowing it wasn't what she wanted it to be. It was there, _he_ was there, and that had to be good enough.

 

She used one hand to grip the back of the sofa, moaning into Sherlock's mouth before nipping that plump bottom lip that she loved so much. If she didn't keep her own mouth busy, she might just end up saying something stupid that she couldn't take back. An 'I love you' didn't count during sex, but once the words were out, they were out. Couldn't put that genie back in the bottle.

 

She told him with her body, all her previous misgivings and doubts falling away as she got closer to orgasm. Sherlock began to thrust up against her, everything suddenly growing urgent. She removed her hand from where it had been buried in the hair at the base of his skull and wedged it between their bodies; she circled her clit, holding herself at the point where she could bring herself off at any time.

 

"Are you close?" she asked, kissing Sherlock's chin.

 

He nodded. "Mm. Very close. Are you?" he asked, his words rushed.

 

"Yeah," she breathed. "I want to make you come. I want you to come inside me, just like this, God you feel so good—"

 

Sherlock tensed and made a strained little noise; Molly's hips jerked in sympathy while she quickly brought herself to orgasm. It was sharp and quick, tapering off into something deeper and stronger; the resistance of his cock was pure heaven.

 

She didn't want to pull off but she knew she had to; she sat back on his thighs for just a moment longer and kissed him, soft and satiated, before dismounting and flopping next to him on the sofa. She stifled the urge to drape herself over him and drop kisses to his damp skin while he dealt with the condom; she didn't want to seem clingy. Instead, she half-reclined against the arm of the sofa with her body on the cushions and her feet still on the floor. She probably looked like she was drunk or recently deceased; she felt like a bit of both.

 

Once Sherlock had stuffed the used condom back in the wrapper and put it out of harm's way, he braced himself on the arm of the sofa and leaned in to kiss her. Her arms went around his neck; it was a half-arsed cuddle, but it was nice anyway.

 

When the angle became too uncomfortable, Sherlock pulled back with one last kiss and a grin. "I want more ice cream," he said, hopping off the sofa and swiping his pants from the floor.

 

Molly dressed; her flat was too chilly to just lounge around naked now that she didn't have Sherlock's heat to share. She picked up Sherlock's pyjamas and dressing gown; thank God it was machine washable. At least she wouldn't have to try to clean the sofa cushions. She picked up the remote and turned the channel.

 

She'd known it was close to midnight but hadn't realized how close, only a few minutes to midnight. She stretched once and sat back down on the sofa; might as well wait it out before heading up to bed. Sherlock plopped down next to her and drew his legs up to sit cross-legged, his leg laying half on her thigh. He handed her a spoon and popped the top of the ice cream carton.

 

They watched the fireworks and ate ice cream and acted like everything was normal; she supposed if they were actually a couple, it _would_ be normal. Regardless of what they were or weren't, it was nice. Comfortable. So comfortable that she could barely keep her eyes open before the display was even over.

 

"Molly," Sherlock said, his voice gentler than usual, "You're falling asleep, go to bed."

 

"Mm. I will. You coming?" She asked, standing. She thought it would be nice if they could sleep together like they did that first night. Bit of a cuddle, just for tonight. She hoped she didn't sound too needy, too expectant.

 

"Not yet, I have a few more things I want to get finished. No time like the present."

 

"Don't push yourself too hard, your body's still healing," she said, knowing it was falling on deaf ears, but feeling the need to say it anyway. She wanted him to know how much he was cared for, at least. It was something he needed to hear, and she could get away with a little fussing without seeming too... whatever... because she was a doctor.

 

He gave her one of those soft, fond little smiles of his. "Had a bit of a kip earlier, it's fine."

 

She hummed and dropped her hand to the top of his hair, smoothing it before turning and leaving to go up to bed. Anything more would be too much. "Night," she called as she crossed the lounge.

 

"Mm, night," Sherlock returned, already reabsorbed in his data collection. "Oh, and Happy New Year."

 

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," she said, turning to smile at him; she was surprised to see that he was actually looking back at her.

 


End file.
